


Sher's Locks

by ZygomaticBliss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Kind of a fix-it, M/M, Poor Sherlock, Some Trash!John, alternate s3, mentions of past trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:36:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5099630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZygomaticBliss/pseuds/ZygomaticBliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes back, and John comes to stay with him. Except Sherlock is a bit odder and ... shaggier than usual, and John doesn't know how much he can trust him anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sher's Locks

**Author's Note:**

> So, welcome to my newest fic! I normally hate angst, and despise writing about mental disorders I don't have, but this story called out to me. Also, if this needed stating, this will be quite a bit more introspective than funny or driven, so be warned. I will be adding tags and trigger warnings as they arise, but for now, sit back and relax.  
> Enjoy!

He waited two weeks – more a matter of his pride and Sherlock's punishment than an actual desire to be away. He would take another bullet to the shoulder before he admitted it in words, but he really did miss it. He really did miss _him_ (although he would likely endure his shoulder being removed completely before he coming close to acknowledging that as such). He filled his time in the interim with the practical things: going to work; visiting his therapist; packing his domestic baubles and pulling his gun and "crime-solving notebook" out of storage; and so on. He watched the news explode with the mass hysteria associated with his unlikely and _miraculous_ return (the anchorwoman's words, not his), and took the next day off of work to drink himself into the earliest grave possible.

At least, that was the plan, but even so soon after Sherlock's resurrection, John found his plans falling to pieces around him. _Falling, falling, falling, just like Sherlock in that great bloody coat of his. Pieces, pieces, pieces, just like John's heart on the pavement beside him_. Instead of immediately getting smashed, he got stuck as he reached into his not-dusty-enough alcohol cupboard for his finest bottle of scotch, stuck on the last time he held the cool crystal beneath his fevered fingers.

_"I'll tell you what you can do. You can stop being dead."_

_"Okay."_

"Okay," John whispered into the near-silence of his empty flat. Angry at his voice for shaking, he ripped the stopper off and poured the drink down his throat, directly from the bottle. Then, a moment for the burn to hit, stopped. Looked at the bottle, now half-empty. Took a deep breath. Another. A third. Fourth. Fifth. "Okay." His voice no longer shook. He took another few careful breaths for good measure. Now his fingers were still too (especially in his left hand, but he didn't think about that). Then, carefully – _carefully_ – he took out a glass and poured himself a couple fingers. One more deep breath – a sigh, or a stifled groan.

He'd beaten the tar out of Sherlock three days ago. He'd strangled him twice and headbutted him. Why hadn't he punched him? Why didn't he knock out teeth, break his nose, prove Irene fucking Adler wrong once and for all? Was it because he'd done as he was asked? _Don't be dead_ , he'd begged a deaf hunk of granite, but a living stone heard him instead and complied. That was Sherlock; that was always Sherlock, doing as he was asked, but only after as much pain and pleading as he could manage. As he shut the cupboard, John recalled what Lestrade had once told him, that Sherlock was a great man and could even be a good one. John had lost faith in that, he didn't know when. In the Fall? In Baskerville? With the bloody Woman? Or had it been so much earlier than that? All he knew is that he could no longer trust Sherlock to be "good"; taking down Moriarty should have been a good deed, but instead it was twisted into betrayal. Because it was _interesting_. Why was he going back to that?

John collapsed into his chair, clutching his glass and ignoring the twinge in his leg with equal force – _the force he used to deny Sherlock cigarettes with, the force he broke that one bloke's nose with when he went at Sherlock with a knife_ – a strength he hadn't exercised in two years. Maybe that was why he didn't have the dexterity to block the memories as they swam in to answer his question:

_"Brilliant."_

_"Extraordinary."_

_"Fantastic."_

_"...the best man I've ever met."_

Whiskey forgotten, John templed his fingers beneath his chin (a self-conscious method of focus, turned comforting gesture, turned habit) and let himself analyze his own thoughts as Sherlock – no, as _Mycroft_ – would see them. If asked, he would feel no shame in admitting it took all day (if anything, he'd feel proud it had taken him so _little_ time). But the answer, for all he struggled to find it – until his scotch no longer appealed and the shadows lengthened and consumed the room around him – could not have surprised him less.

He loved Sherlock Holmes. He was mad and rude and unpredictable and condescending and surprisingly thoughtless and self-absorbed and he, Dr. John H. Watson, loved him with every bone in his body. Brilliant, extraordinary, fantastic – these were assets, the hook that drew him to the surface. But the rest, the issues that drew so many away, that should have driven him away? They were the net that doomed him. It was the whole of him that would keep John gasping until he was with him, beside him, however he could be. The fact that he was bloody fucking gorgeous certainly didn't hurt.

"Well, that's the bisexuality sorted," John murmured and, once again remembering the scotch, downed it quickly. "At least Harry'll be pleased." A huffed laugh, a joyless laugh.

All the same, answer found and resolution reaffirmed, John made himself wait another ten days before returning to his proper place. Pride and punishment, yes, but also plotting and proof. He needed a plan of attack before he set foot on Baker Street; this could _not_ result in some grand gesture of "forgiveness," or some dramatic scene that would put his heart onto his sleeve again. Yes, he'd forgiven Sherlock from the moment he'd looked in the mirror that first night (an old man he'd been, but Sherlock had already reawakened his youth), but only a man besotted would forgive so swiftly, so completely.

And the proof? John wouldn't dare look Sherlock in the eye again without irrefutable evidence he could be away from him if circumstances forced his hand. Only a fool would believe he could hide a secret from Sherlock Holmes, and only a fool would stick around Sherlock Holmes once he knew you loved him. Wasn't Molly evidence enough? Wasn't Irene Adler? So no, John Watson was no fool. He would be prepared for the day Sherlock turned his love against him, for when he needed to leave again. Besides, ten days was plenty time to bury those pesky emotions under as many levels as possible. He may have to face the day when Sherlock uncovered his heart, but he'd be damned if it would be any day soon.

Although he did go ahead and break up with Mary. There was a cover, and then there was cruelty.

**Author's Note:**

> See my subtle jab at Mary there? No? Whatever.  
> Let me know what y'all thought! Updates probably will come through over the weekend, Saturday afternoon (for the US) at the latest, Friday afternoon if I'm lucky!


End file.
